ARV: Missing Scenes
by Greyline
Summary: • Complementary companion fic to About Revolution, featuring any missing scenes that come about. Some didn't fit into their chapter because they were too long, or had a poor effect on pacing, or just didn't feel right. They aren't absolutely necessary to understand ARV but they *are* part of the story—the optional extras nobody asked for.


**Note:** This is for missing scenes from About Revolution. Some of them will be here because they didn't quite work in the fic and some because they made their chapter far too long to be reasonable.

 **Title:** The Lift Aloft

 **Author:** Greyline

 **Parent Fic:** About Revolution  
 _– universe:_ #1B [1946]  
 _– chapter:_ 10, Chaos at Piccadilly Circus

 **Summary:** Tom is glad to be back on terra firma, but not so glad to pay witness to Dumbledore's posturing.

 _._

 _._

 _._

 _june  
_ the lift aloft

.

.

The lift sailed back to the Atrium upsidedown, with he and Dumbledore perched awkwardly either side of the overhead gas-lamp, their arms outstretched, braced against the walls to stay upright. Tom could not quite recall how long they were trapped or how, exactly, the situation resolved itself. Through the grate, the Atrium was swollen with a thousand witches and wizards, a tide of robes all the way back to the floos; those at the front wore the traditional grey-blue of maintenance staff.

 _"We've got it back in one piece..."_

 _"Is anyone in there?"_

 _"We'll be lucky not to be out on our ears for this..."_

 _"Wanna try prising the door open?"_

Quick enough to startle, his old Transfiguration Professor was standing, wand outstretched. Tom did his best not to flinch, even though it was surely this man – this hated man – who healed his leg. The vague aftersense of moderate blood loss told him he may owe Dumbledore his very life. Bet the rotten bastard was overjoyed.

"Stand back, please! This is likely to be a little messy," the man called authoritatively through to the crowds in the Atrium.

Everything went silent.

 _"Oh Merlin,"_ Tom heard someone mutter, _"there_ was _someone in there."_

Dumbledore drew a rectangle in the air following the lines of the door, then, with a jabbing twist and a sensation of... sound, some sound so low he should have no way of hearing it but still could, ripples forced through the air from the tip of the man's wand and the grating began to crumble at the edges, like a flower closing for the night. All of a sudden, the whole thing popped outwards and the lift door fell–

and there was fresh air and light – blessed blessed light!

–to the ground with a clatter and clash, metal-dust shooting upwards into the air of the Atrium.

People gasped.

Somebody cried, "Merlin's beard, it's Dumbledore!"

"Lord Dumbledore, Lord Dumbledore," others clamoured, "are you alright? Are you hurt at all?"

Through the din, he heard a loud voice call, "Do you think this was an attempt on your life, Lord Dumbledore?"

Apparently, Davis had not got very far after departing the FRA.

Tom was forgotten.

Pleased with his present anonymity, lurking behind Dumbledore's shadow, he smartened himself up as he had earlier on, folowing his first, less-disastrous lift journey this morning. The slashes in his clothes were easily repaired and the blood that had coated his legs already appeared to have been cleaned up, presumably with conjured cloth and water. His face screwed up in distaste... He really did not fancy the idea of his old teacher touching him so intimately without his prior knowledge or permission... even if he were unconscious and in requirement of treatment.

By the time he had finished checking himself over, most the reporters looked cowled and Grindelwald's Great Defeater was holding court with the cream once more. Half the Wizengamot was waiting around, along with the members of various other important families.

As he sidled closer to the crowd, he saw Dumbledore offer some dour-looking witch a partial bow.

"Ah, Madam Black," Tom heard him say,"it is my great honour to be graced with your presence again so soon since our last meeting, yet it has still been too long."

"Indeed, Master Dumbledore," the witch greeted tonelessly.

The Transfiguration Professor clearly garnered something more from the exchange than what was spoken, for a moment later he gave a second, chagrined bow. "My apologies, Countess Black."

The Black woman made a hum of disapproval for a moment, before speaking again. "My eldest grandson has just returned home," she said in much warmer tones, now filled with pride rather than condemnation of his old teacher's lack of proper courtesy. "He has agreed to apprentice beneath that Horace Slughorn, your colleague the Potions Master – an acceptable craftsman, if not a pioneer. Do you know, he was my housemate, a year below. As I recall, he always liked to make a spectacle of himself, where possible."

Tom drifted in frustrating uncertainty, knowing many people had seen him exit the lift and certain the aurors would insist on speaking with him. Running never looked good. Besides, he ought to take the chance to eavesdrop on Dumbledore, considering what lengths he had inadvertently gone to in order to create the opportunity.

Something touched his hand.

He turned with a snarl... and found Carina Black beside him. The countess Dumbledore was speaking with must be her grandmother, Violetta Bulstrode.

"As chance would have it, my lady, I have found this latest generation too to draw quite the attention upon themselves. Why, it was less than a decade ago that I was regretfully responsible for sending your Alphard to Horace for disciplining... I had caught him attempting to crossbreed Devil's Snare with the Giant Squid! A brilliant student, if with mildly concerning interests. He alleged it was his younger sister's curiosity which sparked the experiment, though I must admit–" he chuckled in quiet disbelief "–I find it hard to imagine Miss Walburga ever showing interest in such a topic, even as a young child."

The grandmother of his only friend laughed heartily, even as her eyes swivelled to fall on Carina, who was now doing her very best to melt behind his shoulder. Thought was hardly required on Tom's part to infer it was his own friend, rather than her awful sister Walburga, who wished to know if sentient-plants could be convinced to reproduce with the enormous resident of the Great Lake.

"Clever clever..." the woman agreed, moving to firmly reposition a pin slipping out her fine, blonde hair in a way that suggested it was a naughty child. "And here I thought Alphard, at the very least, hadn't the proclivity for non-academic arts as plant and creature husbandry. I find I must alter my hasty judgement of some of my grandchildren. They are each doing remarkably well for themselves."

Dumbledore nodded, clearly having heard much the same. "On the breeze, there has been word of an engagement between Mister Orion Black and the delightful Miss Walburga. If it is not premature, I believe a congratulations may be in order?"

The aged witch gave a tight jerk of her head in confirmation of the rumour, while Carina released a small sigh of relief; presumably she was glad to be spared her fastidious grandmother's wrath for at least a few more minutes. The Great House of Black was known for three things: Its illustrious history, its illimitable wealth, and its inalienable insanity.

"Madam, may you forgive me..." Dumbledore opened entreatingly, "but I must express some concern over the match. I accept it is beyond my bounds to say, however I cannot in good conscience say nothing – first cousins marrying? It is not healthy. Have you heard much about the burgeoning field of genetics?"

"Ah... you subscribe to muggle rubbish, then?"

"I would hardly call it rubbish, my lady. Where in fact, genetics holds the key to much of that which makes us we. It may even know why we are so blessed as to be permitted magic itself. Quite a fascinating field. How bright muggles are, to see that we have for millennia overlooked and taken for gra..."

Oh goody, Tom was anxious to watch Countess Black receiving a stern education from dratted Dumbledore. There was a sanctimonious explosion waiting to happen. He tuned the man out. It was a force of habit, more than out of disinterest for the subject; he himself knew procreating with one's cousins was exceptionally dimwitted. Just look at his squib of a mother, whose own parents had been first cousins and, coincidentally, who bore a face that could have Hell itself retching.

"Slughorn has an apprentice?" he asked his friend quietly, not entirely sure how he felt about this news.

"Oh come on, Tom," Carina said exasperatedly, "you can't be angry. It's not as if he failed to offer you the position. If you recall, he did and you turned him down – _twice_."

"I am well aware," Tom snapped.

That was before Dumbledore stamped out his easy entry into the Department of Muggle Relations'middle-management, leaving Tom with tea-boy-level Ministerial employment prospects, or the option of going into business with stuffy purebloods who's mothers had not the sense to find a dark-street clinic rather than suffer them to live. Inbreeds, the whole bunch – cousins really _should not wed_... Damn Dumbledore for being right!

As a daughter of the Thirteen, Carina was well-trained in the art of reading others... To Tom's annoyance, she knew him well enough that wearing the wool for her was the get-up of a fool. He did not flinch when she put one of her delicate hands, each nail ending in a white-tipped manicure, on his arm and squeezed softly.

"Do you want to get out of here?" she asked gently, waving her other hand around at the hordes of people trapped in the Atrium. "Grandmother and I only came in to file my taxes... but, as the carriages aren't moving, there seems little point trying, now." Most unlike a rigid aristocrat, she grinned widely, pressing her tongue right against her teeth. "I suppose if I forget to pay them their tithe, it will be their own fault, won't it?"

Tom's lips pursed into a hard, though pleased smile. "I suppose it will be," he echoed, grateful to have her company.

"Dearest Grandmother!" Carina singsonged uncouthly from beside him, never looking away from the fond expression he directed towards her. His friend's voice carried well despite the press of people and Countess Black looked over, eyes the shade of weak tea washing over her descendent. "I don't believe we shall be filing anything today, do you? So... I think I'm just going to return to work."

"Leaving so soon, Tom?" Dumbledore asked from beside the imposing witch. "I had hoped to finish our discussion on the merits of selkie conservation in the Estland Shallows! But alas, I see duty calls! If you must leave, then... perhaps another time?"

The dreadful wizard looked so hopeful, too. As if he really wanted to spend time in Tom's company and hear his opinions.

 _Liar._ The man just wanted to keep an eye on Tom, just like during his school days.

Tom swallowed and nodded. "Another time. I'm sure that would be lovely," he agreed, lying himself.

"Spectacular. I shall send you an owl," Dumbledore informed him, never losing his perpetually-delighted demeanour.

After Carina's grandmother had made her farewells, he and his friend bid a hasty retreat through the backed-up Ministry wizards and visitors who could not get to their respective departments of destination. Nobody dare stand in the way of his thunderous expression, eyes demanding they all scatter or be cursed. The presence of Miss Carina – daughter of the Ancient and Most Noble Great House of Black, Second of the Thirteen – only helped clear the way to the exits. The scum found it hard to get out of her way fast enough, some literally tripping over themselves in their haste and then struggling, thrashing like fish on the sand, to get back to their feet. Tom had often said long robes could get one into trouble but served no plain purpose in getting one out of it again; the fashions of the Wizarding World lacked both sense and superiority, when compared to that of their muggle counterparts.

"Did you know, your name tag says you're a retarded gentleman called Tomarvo O'Riddle?"

Tom did not reply. He just sighed heavily as they finally passed the last of the crowds and stepped shoulder to shoulder into one of the large floos. A moment later, she tossed the powder, carefully enunciating the address for her restaurant. At least it looked as if he were getting a free lunch out of this ordeal.

Small victories

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End file.
